


Sun's Up, Gunner

by wallflowers



Series: Soft Memory Errors [4]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Character Study, Drabble Collection, I just have a lot of thoughts about Drift, M/M, Post-Dying of the Light, difficult conversations, it's about what you'd find in canon, rated M because violence, tfw your friend shows back up and reminds everyone why he'd been feared in the war, this is going to be rehauled chronologically at some point but until then have it as is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:15:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23268319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wallflowers/pseuds/wallflowers
Summary: Protecting the people he cared about from his own past was the one thing that could prompt Drift to pick up his guns again. But now with the threat of the DJD over, he has to deal with the aftermath of his decision.And then there's the matter of Megatron.[Please note: this fic is undergoing thorough renovation - when I began writing it, it was a drabble collection, and I hadn't done the meta research on Drift's character I now have. I'm leaving it up for now for people to enjoy, but this will be rehauled in the near-future into a chronological fic with a take on Drift's character that as of now is only really shown in the later installments.]
Relationships: Drift | Deadlock & Megatron, Drift | Deadlock & Rodimus | Rodimus Prime, Drift | Deadlock/Ratchet
Series: Soft Memory Errors [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1810837
Comments: 47
Kudos: 221





	1. Rodimus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble inspired by thinking about how Drift's been using swords for such a short time relative to how long he'd been a gunslinger, and what, if anything, would prompt him to pick up his guns again. Takes place just after the Dying of the Light, in that week they're stuck on Necroworld. 
> 
> Written in one go and unedited. Whether or not I'll expand on this either direction is still up in the air.

“So you gonna tell me what that was about then? You know,” Rodimus made finger guns and pointed them at Drift, doing a bad imitation of a blaster noise as he fired off one, then the other. “Pew, pew.”

They were inside the ruined Rodpod, having sought out some semblance of privacy. There was a lot between them that needed talking about. Drift had hoped this wouldn’t come up in their discussion, but after hours of talking, he guessed it was inevitable. Two days after they narrowly avoided death at the hands of the DJD, it was something the rest of the crew were whispering about among themselves, after all. It was not every day you saw Drift show up with a pair of new blasters and demonstrate the skill that had made him so infamous as Deadlock.

“Pew pew? Really?” Drift said with a laugh, trying desperately to inject some levity into this and hopefully tap into the side of Rodimus that was so easily distracted.

“Drift.” Drift looked up to see Rodimus had leveled him with a steady gaze. It was rare to see him so serious. Not even Drift, who’d arguably spent the most time with Rodimus out of anyone on the ship before his exile, had seen it more than a few times.

No luck, then.

He switched tactics. “You asking me as a friend or as my captain?”

“Whichever will make you talk,” Rodimus said with a shrug.

Drift crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling as he thought. Rodimus was blessedly quiet, giving Drift the time he needed to gather his thoughts. But the silence only held for a moment. This _was_ Rodimus after all.

“Was it Overlord?” Rodimus asked, sincere.

The thought had crossed his mind, when Overlord had gotten loose, that he could’ve possibly helped stop him earlier had he not been fighting with a handicap. But even after then, he hadn’t taken up blasters again. Drift would’ve liked it to have been a matter of discipline, or honor. But the truth was uglier than that — in reality, none of the mechs that had died had been people Drift cared enough about to compel him to take that step. Taking up the gun again meant that he ran the risk of someone finding out that he’d done so. It’d remind them who he had been — not simply an ex-Decepticon, but _Deadlock,_ notorious enough to be one of the nine Decepticons that Autobot MTOs had been onlined with a briefing packet on — which would in turn remind Drift himself who he had been until only very, very recently. It’d shatter the illusion, and force Drift to concede with the fact that he had no idea who he was now.

He hadn’t cared enough about the mechs that had died. He’d made sure Ratchet had lived — because it had always been Ratchet, after all — and had used that as an excuse to bury the knowledge that he could’ve prevented more of the damage that Overlord had caused. A good mech would’ve taken that as an excuse to act.

But Drift wasn’t a good mech. You don’t survive what he’d lived through by being a good mech. Gasket had proven that.

“No,” Drift said. Years ago, before his exile, he would have lied, would rather gutter his own spark than disappoint Rodimus in any way. But Drift had learned a lesson or two about honesty since then. Honesty to himself.

Drift still didn’t know who he was, but he was figuring it out, slowly; something between the insubordinate, stubborn Decepticon assassin, the neutral bounty hunter, and the flaky spiritual Autobot swordsman with no solid opinion of his own. He supposed now was a time as good as any to let Rodimus see that for himself. It wasn’t as though Drift could pretend to go back to who’d he’d seemed to be before he’d left the Lost Light, not with Megatron here. Drift knew even he couldn’t keep the ruse up with that part of his past now in the captaincy.

And that really was the crux of it, wasn’t it? Him trying to reconcile the pieces of himself into something whole. The guns were just a part of that.

He looked over at Rodimus, who was still sitting, waiting about as patiently as anyone could hope from him — with a bouncing leg and a twitch to his spoiler. The sight sent a burst of affection through Drift’s spark.

“Ratchet told me about the parallel Lost Light,” Drift said, finally. “That they… that _we_ were attacked by the DJD, about how Brainstorm thought that maybe he’d been the mole.”

Rodimus’s expression twisted into a pained grimace. “Yeah. It was…”

“I know,” Drift cut in. He didn’t want Rodimus to have relive that. Drift didn’t want to think about it, or about how close he himself had come to bearing the name ‘Vos’ at one point. “I’ve seen their work more than once.”

After a moment’s consideration Drift pushed off the wall, walking from the corner he’d tucked himself into instinctively. Rodimus’s eyes watched him as he approached. He took a seat on the very edge of the ruined console by the pilot’s seat, facing Rodimus, close enough to be familiar but not what they’d used to be. The distance was still there.

“When Ratchet asked me to come back to the Lost Light, I knew I had a decision to make,” Drift continued, looking down at his own hands where they were laced together tightly in his lap. “I’m on the DJD’s list. It was stupid of me to think that maybe with the end of the war, I could get away with being a deserter. But deep down I knew I was living on borrowed time.” Drift let out a short laugh. “Tarn’s a fanatic. Like he’d let me live. Not when Megatron put me on the list himself.”

“Wait, wait—“ Rodimus leaned forward and laid a hand on Drift’s forearm. He looked stricken. “ _Megatron_ put you on the DJD’s list himself?”

Drift nodded. “Me and Starscream. Only two he ever added personally.”

Drift was surprised to find that the thought _hurt._ It had been so long since he’d last given a damn — it had become something of a trivia fact in his mind, detached completely from having any emotional bearing. Because Drift had made it that way. Because Drift was a survivor above all else. Without thinking, Drift lifted a hand and rubbed his chassis, over his spark, as though that would help ease the raw feeling.

He felt Rodimus gently squeeze his arm. He’d forgotten the other speedster was holding it. It spoke something about how he still trusted Rodimus in a way, able to be comfortable with his touch without the part of his mind that always kept a weapon in reach screaming at him. Drift had only ever trusted Rodimus and Ratchet with that.

And Megatron, a long time ago.

Drift let out a heavy breath, sagging slightly.

“I had a decision to make,” Drift said again. “If I came back to the Lost Light, I had to do it with the knowledge that the DJD could come after us again, and that I would be responsible. I wasn’t going to come back. I’m a selfish person, but even I’m not that selfish. I wasn’t about to add your blood to my hands as well. But then Ratchet told me that Megatron was on board. And I didn’t have that choice anymore. The DJD would be coming whether or not I was there, because they would be coming for Megatron.”

“They did,” Rodimus added. Then he grinned. “And we _won._ ”

Drift snorted derisively. “ _Barely._ ”

Rodimus shifted so that his elbow was planted on the console, cheek resting on his hand. He was still holding on to Drift. Drift knew it was just as much for his own sake as it was intended to comfort Drift.

“So you came back guns ablazin’,” Rodimus said.

“Do you want to know how long I’ve been using swords?” Drift asked, and Rodimus nodded. “A little under two hundred years.”

Rodimus blinked, optics wide with disbelief. “That’s _it?_ ”

“That’s it.”

“What the frag Drift, that’s not _fair._ ” Rodimus looked almost genuinely _offended_ that Drift was that skilled with a weapon he’d been using for such a short time. Drift couldn’t help himself from giving Rodimus a cheeky grin before he grew serious again.

“I figured if I was going to take the fight to the DJD… if I wanted to _protect_ the people I care about, I needed to not be stupid. Swords were a handicap. I’m good at them, but I was a gunslinger for four million years. At the end of the day I’m the best shot the Decepticons ever had. Even if I hate it.”

He was tired of running. He’d wanted to return to the Lost Light, he’d wanted to see Rodimus again, wanted to see everyone again, really. Pit, if paperwork was anything to go by, the Lost Light was _Drift’s_ ship. He owned the damn thing. He’d named it. The Lost Light was his home.

Even with that in mind, that wasn’t what had done it. What compelled Drift to get over himself and take his guns back up was Ratchet. Ratchet wasn’t _aware_ of this, of course. But Drift had spent four million years keeping Ratchet alive. Deadlock had made it clear from the very beginning that the medic was under Deadlock’s protection. He’d been able to — Drift was one of the original Decepticons, high command in all but name before he’d fallen from Megatron’s favor. It didn’t matter that Ratchet was the CMO of the Autobots, or a personal friend of Optimus Prime, or that Ratchet was so damned good at his job that the most strategically beneficial option was for him to be dead even amid a shortage of medics. He was Deadlock’s. There wasn’t a mech Drift hadn’t been willing to threaten. He’d even threatened Megatron. More than once. And _that_ had been when Drift was at best Ratchet’s greatest disappointment.

Then after four million years of being feverishly in love with the enemy, the war ends. The war ends, and they ended up on a starship together, and when Drift had left Ratchet had come to _find_ him. To find Drift, to say words to him that Drift hadn’t ever allowed himself to fantasize even at his lowest. To hold him so gently and kiss him so sweetly Drift thought his brittle spark would shatter. Drift was happier than he knew was even possible. And now that he’d tasted happiness… well. He _was_ an addict, after all. Had been. But Ratchet loved him, and Drift wasn’t about to let the DJD take it from him in the name of justice for the crimes of Deadlock or Megatron. Drift had known they would try. Deadlock’s protection of the Autobot CMO contended for the worst-kept secret in the entire Decepticon army. If Ratchet was there, they would hurt him to torture Drift.

It was with that love and rage and resolve that Drift took up his guns again. He would be the assassin again. He would be the berserker. He would be whatever and whoever he needed to be. To protect the Lost Light. To protect his friends. To protect the mech who had all but doomed Drift unknowingly laid claim to Drift’s black spark in a run-down illegal clinic millions of years ago.

“Drift? Hey.” Rodimus’s voice drew him back to the present, to find himself shaking with the intensity of the feelings his thoughts inspired. He didn’t know what look he had in his optics, but considering even _Rodimus_ looked nervous, it wasn’t a good one. Even so, Rodimus gave him a grin, shaky at the edges. “You with me?”

Drift moved his arm from beneath Rodimus’s hand and pressed his palm to his optics, shuttering them as he invented deeply to calm himself, falling into a familiar breathing pattern. Inhale, hold, exhale. Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

He waited until he was certain the last flames of his rage were cooled before he dropped his hand and looked at Rodimus.

“Sorry,” he said, sheepish.

Rodimus shook his head. “Don’t be. I think we’re all still keyed-up.”

“Anyway. There’s your answer.” Weakly, Drift made finger guns. “Pew, pew.”

Rodimus didn’t even acknowledge the gesture, looking somewhere in the distance with a contemplative expression on his faceplates. Unease settled in Drift’s tank, the self-confidence he’d had moments earlier evaporating. What had he been thinking, telling Rodimus all of that? Sure, he was just being honest, but he could have just given him the short answer, he could’ve—

“Are you going to be okay?” Rodimus spoke abruptly, cutting Drift’s path of panicked thoughts short. Drift faltered, uncertain what exactly Rodimus meant.

“What?”

“Megatron _personally_ put you on the Decepticon torture squad’s _hit list,_ ” Rodimus said. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, if it comes to blows I’ve got your six, but I think we’d all prefer that wouldn’t happen.” Rodimus was speaking quickly, filled with an almost-nervous energy.

“I’m not going to fight Megatron, Rodimus,” Drift said tiredly.

“Glad to hear it, because Swerve’s already taking bets on who’d win. It’s a pretty close tie, actually. But I’m not really talking about that. I mean, like, emotionally. You’ve got a spark in there I care about too, even if I’ve probably been the worst ever at showing it.”

Drift gave Rodimus a long look, taking in the quiver of his spoiler, how his EM field was pulled in suspiciously tight for a mech who’d always been bad about broadcasting things. Rodimus’s aura, even, was a greyish-green.

“Megatron and I were friends, at the beginning,” Drift said, slowly.

“Drift, that makes this _way_ worse,” Rodimus said, concerned. Drift hadn’t meant it to sound like an excuse, but he could see why Rodimus took it that way.

Drift shook his head. “That’s not what I mean. Rodimus, my history with Megatron is mine to deal with. You don’t need to feel guilty for liking him.”

Drift knew he’d landed a direct hit when Rodimus’s face crumpled. Guilt flooded his EM field.

“But you’re my friend,” Rodimus said, quietly. “And he did that to you."

Not to mention... literally everything else Megatron was responsible for. The war, for starters.

“Megatron as he is now seems the closest to how he used to be that I’ve seen in years,” Drift admitted. “He was a good mech back then, not just a good leader or a good warmonger. He’s smart, charismatic. Dependable. He taught me to write and read." _It's alright if you like him,_ Drift wanted to say. _The war is over. I liked him too, once._

“What, you’re telling me you weren’t always this eloquent?” Rodimus teased.

Drift let out a bark of laughter. “I’m pretty sure I only stopped using _frag_ as punctuation in the last thousand years.”

But the teasing was short lived. Rodimus’s shoulders slumped, and his EM field once more quietly buzzed with an underlying guilt.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Rodimus said. Drift suppressed a sigh.

“I’ve been through worse,” Drift replied. “I’m probably going to be on edge until I have the opportunity to speak with Megatron myself, but if he is like he used to be then he’ll leave it to me to determine when and where that happens.” Megatron would give Drift space, would remember that being cornered only made Drift lash out. The rules of engagement would be left entirely up to Drift, and if Drift never wished to acknowledge or speak to Megatron ever, Megatron would respect that. Drift suspected that was what Megatron expected to happen, but that was untenable, especially now that Ravage was gone. He’d speak to Megatron, eventually. When he was ready.

“Okay, insider opinion: do you think it’s legit?” Rodimus asked.

“Hmm?”

“Megatron’s… deal. Being a changed mech and all.”

“...I don’t know,” Drift said honestly. “But I hope so.” He hoped much more than he probably should.

A contemplative silence stretched between the both of them. Just as it drew long enough for Drift to wonder what it was Rodimus seemed to be thinking so hard about, Rodimus shook his head.

“Two hundred years,” Rodimus said quietly, almost speaking to himself. “What the _fuck_ Drift.”

Drift couldn’t hold in the laughter, and it took Rodimus only a moment before he’d joined in. As Drift clutched his own waist, tears of laughter pooling at his optics at something that shouldn’t be so funny but _was_ , giggling ridiculously like younglings with his almost-Amica, he felt for the first time in as long as he could remember that maybe things truly were going to be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea how long before the end of the war Drift took up the sword, but I do know it was a really relatively short amount of time, so 200 years is just something I pulled out of thin air.
> 
> hmu at lesbiandeadlock.tumblr.com


	2. See With Blinding Sight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place just before the fight against the D.J.D. during the... well, the conversation between Drift and Rodimus that gets an extended look in this drabble.
> 
> Hah. I did it. I kept this a non-chronological drabble collection and curbed my impulse to hoard everything until I could put it all into order.

“ _There_ you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you…!”

When Rodimus’s voice rose from behind him, Drift couldn’t say he was surprised. He’d expected Rodimus would seek him out at some point — part of Drift’s sitting alone, sharpening his swords, was to give Rodimus the opportunity to do so. Because regardless of who he pretended to be, Drift still felt better about confrontation when he could expect it.

“That makes a change,” Drift said, not bothering to keep the bitterness from his tone.

“ _Ow._ Direct hit. Lose a life.” Rodimus’s attempt at levity fell flat, hanging awkwardly between them. Drift didn’t respond, and he heard Rodimus let out a sigh, moving to stand in front of Drift. “Listen, Drift, I— We both know I’m very good at making very bad decisions. But letting you take the blame for Overlord—letting you go—that was more than a bad decision. That was my _worst_.”

“After I left, you told the crew the truth. Why didn’t you come looking for me after _that_?” Drift, honestly, didn’t really want to know the answer. He knew that it was likely Rodimus would deflect, or offer a lame excuse, or a non-answer. But Drift was pissed. Not at Rodimus, entirely, but certainly in _part._ So Rodimus could stand to struggle with answering the hard questions, for just a moment, while Drift tried to sort how much of the anger he felt was directed at the other mech and how much of it was simply directed at their situation.

“Because I thought you’d hate me! Sending you away was bad enough. Sending you away for no reason…”

But it had been for a reason. Drift, in the least, had his reasons. Just as he had his reasons for coming back, even though he was knowingly and literally walking into his own shallow grave.

It was when Rodimus kneeled down in front of him that Drift finally met his optics.

“I don’t trust myself with words— they’re too easy to manipulate,” Rodimus stated. “But you taught me that there are a dozen better ways to speak to someone. If you read my aura, or listen to the timbre of my voice, or look in my eyes… if you do _any_ of those things you’ll understand how _bad_ I feel—and how badly I want things to be like the way they were.”

Drift didn’t need to do any of the thingsRodimus suggested to tell how sorry he was; more than aura and vocal inflection, Drift simply was good at reading body language. It helped you to stay alive when you knew that a mech who seemed friendly was planning on shooting you the moment your back was turned. So yes, Drift knew Rodimus was honestly sorry. He also could tell that Rodimus was in equal parts deeply, _deeply_ uncomfortable and was desperate for this conversation to be over. That it would have been easier to never have sought out Drift in the first place. And yet, here he was, determined to not leave or let it go until he had made this apology, lame as it was. Hard as it was.

It was that knowledge, more than anything Rodimus had said, that made Drift offer him a tentative smile. It wasn’t forgiveness, exactly. Things wouldn’t go back to the way they were—that would require Drift to resume being a person he honestly wasn’t, something that seemed suffocating to Drift now that he’d gotten a taste at authenticity. But they had about four hours left to live, so this was all a moot point really.

Rodimus seemed to take it as being forgiven, or felt it was close enough, because either way he visibly relaxed and sat down on the floor next to Drift with a huff.

“There’s something else you need to hear,” Rodimus said. “I know you’re on the DJD’s _list_ , and… we’re gonna get out of this. You, me, everybody. We’re gonna make it. I promise.”

The gesture was sweet, but that didn’t stop a laugh from nearly working it’s way past Drift’s lips at how absurd it was.

“You shouldn’t get into the habit of making impossible promises, Roddy. But even so—thank you.” Drift paused, inspecting his blade once more. Satisfied with the sharpness, he tucked away the whetstone into his subspace, fingers brushing for a moment against the cool metal of the old pair of blasters hidden there. “Actually, that’s something I wanted to talk to you about. The DJD is…” _a god-awful way to die,_ he would’ve said, but reconsidered it at the last moment. “I’ve had a lot of time to come to terms with it, it not being ‘ _how’,_ but ‘ _when’_. I’m reaping what I’ve sown— ah. No. No arguing.” He held up a hand as Rodimus opened his mouth, only dropping it when his friend reluctantly stayed silent. “This shouldn’t have happened to any of you. We should send out a message to Cybertron, if possible. Let the crew—yourself included—record their final wishes, instructions for burial and… say goodbye. I’m told it can be cathartic, so it may help, if only a little bit.”

Drift wouldn’t know if saying goodbye was a cathartic experience—anyone who’d ever given a damn about him died before Drift ever got a chance. He guessed he’d be learning with the rest of them if it helped.

“I… yeah. Yeah, we should do that.” Rodimus dragged a hand over his face, then glanced at Drift. “You leave a message, too. Okay?”

Drift was about to protest, because what would he say? He and Ratchet had already had their long goodbye on the shuttle, on the way here, knowing that neither of them were going to make it out of this. But a thought crossed his mind, and instead he nodded.

“I will.”

Rodimus’s hands clenched into fists, his teeth gritted.

“ _Getaway is going to pay for this,_ ” he sneered. “Somehow, if it’s the _last_ _thing I do_ , I’m going to make that son of a bitch _pay._ ”

Drift stood, the blade of his sword flashing as he idly worked through a basic movement to test the balance. “There’s a bounty hunter stationed on Elpasos I worked with a few times. Calls himself a ‘freelance peacekeeping agent’ which is a load of slag, but he was capable. Horns, detachable hand, eyebrows that would make Rung jealous,” Drift commented.

Drift felt Rodimus give him a long look, but didn’t meet his gaze. He sheathed the sword.

“Good to know,” Rodimus said.

Ratchet was waiting outside when he left the storage closet that they’d been using as a makeshift recording booth, long after his conversation with Rodimus. Drift had been the last to record his message. It would take three weeks to reach Cybertron; by the time anyone heard their words, they would all be dead.

When Ratchet’s optics met his own, his expression was dour, torn between frustration and what could only be called heartbreak.

"Drift—“ he started, but there was nothing left to say that they hadn’t already.

Drift walked swiftly toward him, took his face in his hands and pulled him into a searing kiss. After a long moment, they parted, only far enough for Drift to rest his forehelm against Ratchet’s.

" _I love you_. More than anything,” Drift said, his words no less fierce for how quietly he spoke.

Ratchet nodded, squeezing one of Drift’s wrists. "I love you too, kid.“

As Ratchet pulled Drift into a tight embrace, Drfit wondered for not the first time if Ratchet knew that Drift had protected him during the war. If he knew the lengths to which Drift would go to see Ratchet, if no one else, stayed safe. He shuttered his optics and tucked his face into Ratchet’s shoulder.

Hidden inside his subspace, the weight of his blasters burned.

_You said once, so long ago, that you saw in me something special. Let's see if I can put it to good use for once._

✶

_“This is_ **_Rodimus of Nyon_** _… and I’m_ ** _incredibly pissed off_** _. By the time you—kzzk—ear this, we’ll all be_ ** _dead_** _, murdered by the_ ** _Decepticon Justice Division_.** _We were betrayed by a nasty little—kzzk—called Getaway, who_ **_somehow_ **_managed to trick my entire crew into turning against me. The DJD will be here in a few hours, so we’re taking this opportunity to say_ ** _goodbye_** _—and to ensure that our remains are disposed of in a manner which reflects each of our_ **_deeply held beliefs_** _._

 _“After I die, I want someone to sell my_ ** _inner-most energon_** _—it’s matrix-enriched, so y’know, it’ll fetch a good price—and use the proceeds to employ a_ ** _bounty hunter_** _. There’s this_ ** _freelance peacekeeping agent_ **_on Elpasos. Horns, detachable hand, eyebrows that would make Rung jealous. Use him. He’s the second-best bounty hunter I know of, but unfortunately the best bounty hunter I know is about to_ ** _die along with the rest of us_**. _”_

 _“I want what’s left of my body to be turned into a_ ** _pathblaster_** _—Brainstorm says it’s totally possible—and I want the bounty hunter to_ ** _use_** _the pathblaster to **s**_ ** _hoot Getaway in the face._** _Now_ ** _ideally_** _the pathblaster would be in my colors? But the_ ** _main thing_** _is that Getaway dies knowing I was personally responsible for his lack of a head. In fact, I want that included in the bounty hunter's contract, that they need to say 'courtesy of Rodimus', or something. You hear that, Getaway? You better start running because you’re going to pay for what you’ve done._ “

**— _KZZZZZK_ —**

" _Ratchet. Of Vaporex. I’m only doing this because I was_ ** _manhandled_** _into it. There isn’t going to be anything of us_ ** _left_** _, realistically, and I doubt anyone will find us here even if there is. But if it helps… well. If it helps._

 _“…I joined the Lost Light thinking it would be my_ **_swan song_** _. I didn't want to stick around and deal with all the slagging pity I'd get when everyone realized my hands failing meant I wasn't good for anything anymore. Then I got new hands. Then I found—kzzk—. Just when it started seeming like I had been acting melodramatic, thinking this was the end of the line, turns out I was_ **_right_** _._

 _“Shouldn't have waited so damn long to get on that shuttle. If Primus exists, he's having a laugh_."

**— _KZZZZZK_ —**

_"My designation is_ ** _Drift of Rodion_** _. Until recently, you likely knew me as_ ** _Deadlock_**. _I would say I'm sorry—I_ ** _am_** _—but I'll spare you the apologies because that is not why I'm here._

 _"I was the one to suggest to the mecha whose final wishes you just witnessed that they create these recordings. Because I had one thing none of them did—I had time. I've_ ** _known_** _, for centuries, that_ ** _this is how I would die_** _. I've made peace with it, and I've done so knowing it was my own actions, my own choices, that led to this. But none of these mecha you just saw speak chose this for themselves. None of them deserve it. Some of them aren't even Cybertronian—we have Camiens among us, who never saw our war. And yet, unthinkingly, you sealed their fate. You determined, in one simple decision, that this is how they would all die. Because you didn't want to deal with it. Because_ **_you_** _, Orion Pax, didn't want to be the one to point the finger and_ ** _end Megatron's life_** _._

 _"People on_ ** _both sides_ **_like to forget that I was there since the beginning—that I was there when our numbers had yet reached twenty. Fine. Whatever. Take it from someone who would know;_ ** _Decepticonism is dead._ **_It died millions of years ago even if none of us could see it. We lost our way, and everyone continues to suffer for it. But I know Megatron's writing. I know he didn't write the speech he gave. It wasn't his style; it was_ ** _bad_**. _And yet it did the job; it let you solve the problem of the remaining Decepticons while you put him in charge of a ship that was_ ** _not yours to commandeer_** , _in a captaincy_ ** _completely unwarranted_** _, given essentially free rein, to—what? What did you think would happen? If you are the least bit the wise leader that people claim you to be, then you knew. And if you didn't, then you're_ **_lying to yourself_** _._

 _"Say all you want. Explain all you like. I know better than anyone: apologies won't bring the dead back. Remember the faces of every mech you saw speak here today. Remember their names._ **_Ratchet_** _._ ** _Rodimus_** _._ ** _Nautica_** _._ ** _Velocity_** _._ ** _Minimus Ambus_** _._ ** _Chromedome_** _._ ** _Rewind_** _._ ** _Skids_** _._ ** _Whirl_** _._ ** _Brainstorm_** _._ ** _Tailgate_** _._ ** _Cyclonus_** _._ ** _Swerve_** _._ ** _Nightbeat_** _._ ** _Rung_** _._ _They were_ ** _good people_** _, all of them, in their own way. This tragedy happened because when the time came, you were weak. You sought the easy way out._

_"I had left the Lost Light when I realized the DJD were nearing my name on the List, to protect the crew. Now, it was for nothing. I have no funerary wishes. I'll die beside the mech I love and Primus will receive my spark as he sees fit. May the same be said for you._

_"Deadlock out."_

**« TRANSMISSION END »**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do know that I'm going to get questions about Drift calling himself Deadlock at the end there, so here's my thoughts: I intended it to be intentional, to support his point of "I deserved this, they didn't" and to emphasize the difference between the rest of the crew whose messages had come before (a number of whom were either civilians or weren't a notable name during the war) and himself. But another possible reason is it may have been subconscious; as Drift is recording that message, he is gearing up to pick up the guns again and fight as viciously as he'd been famed for, something he hadn't done in a significant amount of time, so he may have been thinking of himself as 'Deadlock' and it just came out when he signed off. 
> 
> Writing for a series whose author you really respect is weird, because on one hand I would have LOVED for Drift to have gotten some much-needed development, and on the other hand, I can tell exactly why Jro went the direction he did. But that's what this is for, I suppose: exploring the differences if Drift had been written just a little to the left, just a little angrier and a little more honest with himself.
> 
> Also, as I was writing, this "AU where Drift and Ratchet didn't get the call and didn't show up on Necroworld" version of Roddy's final message popped up:
> 
> “After I die, I want someone to sell my inner-most energon —it’s matrix-enriched, so y’know, it’ll fetch a good price—and use the proceeds to employ a bounty hunter by the name of Drift, also known as Deadlock. He might offer to do it for free, but give him the credits anyway.
> 
> "I want what’s left of my body to be turned into a pathblaster—Brainstorm says it’s totally possible—preferably by Ratchet if he's still with Drift, and I want Drift to use the pathblaster to shoot Getaway in the face. Now ideally the pathblaster would be in my colors? But the main thing is that Getaway dies knowing I was personally responsible for his lack of a head. Congrats, Getaway. You're going to have the best assassin any of us know after your aft for what you've done. If I were you I'd start running."
> 
> So if anyone's intrigued enough to take that and run with it, have at it.


	3. Perceptor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS A REPOST IM SORRY I fat-finger deleted the entire damn chapter smh. r.i.p. to the comments on that chapter, I'm very sad
> 
> Takes place after Dying of the Light. In canon Perceptor was one of the mutineers and wasn't there for their encounter with the DJD but this is not canon, so here we are.

“The answer is no.”

Drift had wandered into the Lost Light’s shooting range after Brainstorm informed him that’s where he’d currently find Perceptor. It wasn’t where Drift would’ve expected to find the scientist, not now that the war was over. But there he was, sniper blaster on his shoulder and head cocked to line up the shot. He supposed it wasn’t too peculiar that Perceptor was down here; after what had happened with the DJD, he didn’t fault the other mech for deciding it would be smart to keep his sharpshooting skills… well, sharp.

That understanding didn’t mean Drift had a single idea what Perceptor was talking about. He hadn’t even spoken yet. 

“Alright then,” Drift said. “What question am I supposed to be asking here?”

“Oh.” Perceptor lowered the blaster and looked at him properly. “I was assuming given the location that you were wanting your guns back.” 

“My… my guns?”

Perceptor’s expression grew concerned. “You entrusted them to me, immediately after your encounter with Tarn. Does that… not sound familiar?”

Now that he mentioned it, Drift did vaguely recall shoving his blasters into someone’s hands the moment he entered the Necrobot’s citadel with an indistinct notion that the mech he’d given them to would keep them where Drift wouldn’t be able to retrieve them once more. The entire aftermath of his encounter with the DJD was hazy at best – he remembered the fight itself, but the rest of it was blurred by the crash of adrenaline and what Rung had called a “temporary psychotic alleviation”, whatever that meant. Something about his abrupt re-living of his past as Deadlock momentarily untethering him from the present as a stress response.

He'd also had one of his finials crushed by Tarn's hand moments before, which had been painful like little else he'd experienced, for account of the sheer number of sensors that lined them. That alone would've done it.

“No. Yeah. Right. Yeah I remember.” That specific detail admittedly made this a bit more awkward than it was already going to be. “Um. Yeah I don’t want those back. That’s not why I was looking for you. I actually wanted to apologize.”

“What for?” Perceptor asked, honest.

Drift had wanted to somehow express that Perceptor was still someone he considered a friend (insomuch as he had those) and trusted (insomuch as he trusted anyone who wasn't Ratchet), but it seemed as though he'd already done so, essentially, in giving Perceptor his blasters to look after. It left him at a loss for words.

“For… isolating? Not the word I’m looking for, but… we fell out of touch and that was my fault. I do that, when I'm doing that... thing I do." Inwardly, he kicked himself. This is why he preferred the written word to speaking when it came to these sorts of conversations– trying to figure out how to express his nebulous thoughts in-the-moment either caused him long pauses or, more genuinely, resulted in excessive swearing as filler to buy himself the precious shards of seconds it took for his processor to catch up with his mouth. "Reinventing myself, quote-em-quote. I'm trying to not do that anymore. Trying to figure out how to do things the right way this time.”

“Do you recall when I asked you to teach me to shoot?” Perceptor prompted.

“Kind of hard to forget. You're the only person I ever taught,” Drift replied.

"My taking on the role of a sniper wasn’t popular. My colleagues expressed deep disappointment in my decision, and tried to talk me out of it up until I joined the Wreckers. You were a complete stranger, and yet, you were the only one who understood why I needed to do what I did."

"...Right." He knew Preceptor was going somewhere with this - he just wasn't sure where, exactly.

"That goes both ways. I wasn't hurt or upset that we ceased speaking, because I understood you needed time to sort out who you were and weren't. Who you are. I figured you'd come back when you had a better idea of that."

The relief was near-dizzying, rushing over him in a wave. Drift had never been one to mend bridges he burned, even if he'd regretted it; he'd come into this with no idea what to expect, with nothing assuring him that this wouldn't be a mistake. Yet, here they were.

"I don't think I have any more idea than I ever did, Perce," he admitted.

Preceptor hummed. "Is that so?" He didn't sound convinced. Drift didn't say anything, instead watching Preceptor raise the scope to his eye, aiming at the target at the far end of the shooting range. "Were you surprised that Brainstorm was a double agent for the Deceptions?"

Preceptor's shot rang out in the enclosed space, and Drift waited for the echoes to fade before responding.

"Yeah, kind of," he said. "He's not really the type we usually would go for."

"Oh? Who was, then?"

Drift considered. "Nightbeat, probably."

Preceptor was quiet for a moment. Another shot rang out. Drift noted it hit the mannequin in the temple rather than the center-forehelm like he'd known Preceptor to be aiming for.

"You're still anticipating the recoil," he offered. "It's affecting your aim. And you’ll injure your shoulder over time."

"I'm surprised how everyone seems to forget you were part of Decepticon High Command," Preceptor commented. To Drift, it came out of the blue. He gave his friend a confused look.

"I mean, for good reason on one side at least," Drift said. "And I wasn't, really. Remember the slagger I told you about, Turmoil? When I got assigned as his second that was technically a promotion."

"And yet you had a place among them."

"It'd be more accurate to say I was outside the chain of command. I didn't command anyone. Megatron considered me a failsafe; if there was anyone who he simply needed removed fast, quietly, and cleanly, who were too much a problem alive that building a propaganda effort wasn’t worth it, he’d send me in. Otherwise I acted on either my own accord or on Megatron's orders but I didn't answer to anyone else. Pit, outside of being assigned a specific job I didn't even follow his orders if I didn't agree with it. I was probably the only person who got away with that long as I did. It pissed off a number of people, Starscream probably the most of them.” Drift snorted derisively. “Said I was getting 'special treatment'." 

Drift was certain that the mechs on the Lost Light were under the impression that he’d been quick to follow Megatron, eager to throw himself at the first person who’d give him praise. His most recent persona all but wiped the reality from their minds that Deadlock had been notoriously insubordinate. Drift hadn’t intended to ever join the Decepticon movement; the first time Drift had met Megatron, he’d been trying to figure out if he should accept a hit on Megatron’s head. The anonymous contact had offered a lot of credits, a number larger than Drift could even conceive of, back then. But the sum made him cautious, and Megatron’s only crime being “agitation” made him curious. So he’d sought out Megatron, to see if it was worth the trouble, only to find the source of all this discord was a humble miner who fancied himself a poet with no more than seven mechs dedicated to his “cause”. He’d told Megatron at the time that he was delusional. Megatron, in turn, became determined to change Drift’s mind, near-relentlessly pursuing him at every opportunity that presented itself and hell-bent on drawing him into another debate. Never threatening, but persistent. That was the beginning of Drift’s friendship with Megatron; grown outside the Decepticon movement, born from odd encounters and Megatron’s romantic notions of a better world that eroded Drift’s own cynical resignation. A seduction of possibilities. 

Drift had been happy to follow Megatron's word, initially. Megatron had won him over; he’d given him an identity, a group to belong to, and it counted for something. But as the war waged on, Drift had begun to argue more, begun to disagree, to question. He’d continued to demand to be treated as an equal when equality among the ranks was long a thing of the past, and though that was something his once-friend had wanted, that Megatron too was long gone. Drift pushed too far, and as far as he could tell that alone finally prompted Megatron to reconsider the nebulous place Deadlock had gotten to occupy within the Decepticon ranks for so long.

"So Decepticons consider you to not be part of High Command due to technicalities," Preceptor prompted. Drift watched as he returned the practice-weapon to the locker where they were kept. 

It was far, far more complicated than that, but Drift was hyper-aware of the cultural differences between the Autobots and the Decepticons. He wasn’t sure if Perceptor’s pragmatism would make it easier or more difficult to explain.

"Eh. Mostly it was because I was an aft. Hard to get support when no one likes you. But it worked out, so." Drift shrugged. Not a lie, an omission. He was still allowing himself those, for now at least.

Preceptor locked the metal cabinet with a key card, then looked at him. "You like people underestimating you."

Drift opened his mouth to protest, to deny, but he found that when he thought about it, Preceptor wasn't wrong. And wasn’t this whole ordeal Drift was putting himself through an exercise in honesty?

So instead, Drift crossed his arms, cocked his head, and grinned. "What would you say we move this conversation to Swerves?"

“After you,” Perceptor said primly, with a slight smile of his own.


	4. Old Friends Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And suddenly, everyone knows who Drift really is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This behemoth took. Much longer. Than I intended.

Ravage was dying. He felt slightly bitter about the whole ordeal – after surviving a war that waged for millions of years, _now_ he was dying, and not even by the hands of an Autobot. No, instead he was ripped in two by _Tarn_ , and was now laying here uselessly, dying, surrounded by the enemy-except-not, unable to help the one person here he could call a friend. The entire thing was less than ideal. Ravage wasn’t about to admit to being scared, but...

He missed Soundwave.

A hand covered his paw and squeezed gently. Ravage opened his optics and wearily lifted his head to see Deadlock looking down on him. Deadlock with his same face and new frame, with a different designation that apparently was his original name, from what Megatron told Ravage. Deadlock, who’d always held a nebulous place in the Decepticon army but had proven irreplaceable to the Decepticon cause. Deadlock, the maybe-enemy who was nonetheless was someone Ravage knew well. That alone was a comfort Ravage needed right now.

Deadlock crouched, sitting on his haunches so that Ravage wouldn’t have to look up. 

“You’re in good hands here,” Deadlock told him.

“I’m dying,” Ravage informed him, bluntly.

“We’ll see about that.” Deadlock glanced over his shoulder as the sound of a fusion cannon going off sounded from the security footage, its muffled echo heard through the walls of the fortress. Megatron, against an army. How many times they’d seen such a thing neither of them could count. “I was wrong about him.” 

“You’re going to help,” Ravage stated – he didn’t need to ask.

Deadlock patted the side of his thigh; on his old frames, it was where he’d had compartments to store his blasters when he wasn’t using them. Ravage could only assume that this frame held the same.

Another cannon blast, and Deadlock was standing. Before he could pull it away, Ravage weakly lifted his head and dropped his chin on top of Deadlock’s hand, prompting the gunner to pause.

“Wait. I need to–” Ravage’s ventilation stuttered, and he groaned.

“You need to rest,” Deadlock said.

“I need to know why. Why did you leave?”

“We were never going to win the war, Ravage, because winning a war requires there to be something left _to_ win. At a certain point, it just had to end. I did what I could.”

“Why the Autobots? You hate them, more than any of us.”

“Sometimes protecting the people you care about means fighting for them,” Drift said, “and sometimes it means forcing them to stop fighting.” 

With one last squeeze, Deadlock let go of Ravage’s paw, gently pulling his hand from beneath Ravage’s head and slipping away. No one had noticed the exchange, telling Ravage that Deadlock had engaged his attention diversion mods at some point – the ones that Ravage had the counter-programs to installed, an antique from the long cycles they’d spent on stealth missions and stakeouts together in the earlier years of the war. 

Ravage let out a pained ex-vent and laid his head down again, optics trained on the security screen as one of the medics rushed over to fuss over him, determined to stay alive long enough to at least see what happened to the only two people on this rock he cared about.

Outside the fortress, Drift took a deep invent. He released the clamps that held Reach Penance Through Violence in place on his back. With the blade laid across his palms, he looked over Wing’s Great Sword solemnly. He understood the sword’s name now. He hadn’t when he first inherited it.

“Sorry Wing,” Drift said quietly, “it looks like I’m going to have to go back to being that ungrateful wretch you met in the desert. For a little bit at least. Wish me luck, and if I’m not… well. I’ll be seeing you soon.” 

Grasping the hilt, Drift stabbed the blade into the loamy soil in front of the threshold to the Necrobot’s fortress. He stepped back, and drew his guns.

“Keep an eye on them for me, will you?” Drift said. 

A gunshot rang through the night. Drift turned his head just in time to see Megatron’s fusion cannon explode. A familiar, odd sound rang in the aftershock. The warlord fell to his knees. 

Drift swore, and took off.

* * *

As recently as a few hours ago, Tarn would have argued against using an audio-paralysis bullet in the fight against Megatron. But Megatron himself had shown Tarn that his idol was replaced now by nothing more than a pathetic mimicry. If Megatron was so insistent on a pathetic death, Tarn would provide that one last gift to his lord. 

Beside him, Overlord cocked his gun, and pointed it at Megatron’s head, where Tarn’s cannon was already leveled. 

“Together?” Overlord prompted. 

“Together.”

The sound of gunshots rang through the air, but it wasn’t Tarn nor Overlord who pulled the trigger, and it was not Megatron who was struck. 

Tesaurus reared back, screaming and clutching his face. Energon seeped through where his fingers covered his visor — beneath it lay the bleeding remains of his six optics, each shot out with deadly precision in the span of less than a second. 

Megatron forgotten for the moment, Tarn looked around wildly, trying to seek out the unseen gunman. Only one mech could land those accurate of shots that quickly; Tarn knew, exactly, who they were dealing with.

**_BLAM!_ **

Tesaurus’s screams stopped abruptly as another shot planted itself directly into his spark, easily, the weapon his frame was built to accommodate making him a vulnerable target for someone who knew where to aim. He collapsed, lifeless. 

“WHERE ARE YOU?!” Tarn screamed, enraged. “SHOW YOURSELF!” 

“Behind you.” 

Tarn whirled around, to find Deadlock standing there, closer than he should’ve been able to approach unnoticed. 

“ _You._ ” Tarn sneered, the hatred in his field strong enough that Drift could feel it in the space between them. Overlord, who stood just next to the leader of the D.J.D, took a step away as though the intensity had physically pushed him. Overlord looked at Drift, then at Tarn, and laughed.

“What’s this Tarn? Are you scared of _him?_ Some _Autobot?_ Please. I tore his legs off and he couldn’t do a single thing about it.” Overlord turned his attention to Deadlock, a smirk on his lips. He stepped forward and spread his arms in a grandiose gesture as Deadlock strode towards them. “Are you here to try to defend your reputation after that sorry display? I’m feeling generous, so I’ll give you a—“

Deadlock lifted his gun and shot Overlord through the roof of his mouth. His helm exploded.

Overlord’s headless body fell to its knees. Deadlock holstered his gun. Before the frame could tip over, he grabbed Overlord’s collar faring and, lifting the sword in his other hand, stabbed down the cavity of Overlord’s throat; straight through the spark, guttering it completely before it could combust. 

In a matter of seconds, Overlord was dead.

“That was for Pipes,” Drift said, quietly. 

With a foot planted on its chassis, Deadlock kicked Overlord’s corpse aside. He flicked his blade to clean it of the clinging energon and sheathed his sword. Then, Deadlock turned, and looked at Tarn. Instantly the remaining DJD trained their weapons on him.

“DON’T.” Tarn threw his hand out before they could even twitch a strut.

Helex dared to speak. “Tarn—“

“ _DO. NOT._ ” Helex and Vos immediately covered their audials as Tarn’s _voice_ washed over them. “Deadlock is _mine_.”

* * *

_Inside the Necrobot’s citadel, the crew of the Lost Light deemed too loyal to their captains to live stared, in shock and bewilderment, at the screen that displayed the live security footage recorded by the cameras set up around the fortress. In the forefront of the bodies crowded around the display was Rodimus, who was having, frankly, an extremely difficult time making sense of the last ten seconds._

_“Drift is… Deadlock?” Rodimus said, voicing the question everyone was thinking._

_“You didn’t know?” Ravage’s voice was weak, but the room was quiet enough that the dying mech could be heard clearly. Ravage chuckled. “How we ever lost the war to you lot I’ll never understand.”_

_Rodimus shook his head. “That… that can’t be right. He never...”_

_“Never what? Told you? Why would he? So you could be more hostile, more presumptuous, than you already were? If he wanted you dead, you would be dead. All of you.”_

_“How did_ ** _no one_** **_know_** _?” Chromedome asked. “He could have done this, stopped Overlord, the first time_ _around. Are we seriously– are we_ ** _seriously_** _saying that no one knew_ ** _Deadlock_** _was on our ship?”_

_“I think,” Ravage said, “that would be a question for the good doctor. Wouldn’t it Ratchet?”_

_Ratchet, who had been standing off to the side and trying to focus on saving Ravage’s life beneath the suffocating fear that overcame him the moment they saw Drift back out on that battlefield, suddenly found himself the center of attention._

_“...Yes, I suppose it would be."_

* * *

This was what Deadlock had been gambling on — the fact that beneath Tarn’s calm veneer, he was incapable of not letting his emotions control him, and that more than anything, Tarn _loathed_ him. Deadlock had to buy some time, enough for the paralysis shot that held Megatron immobile to wear off. Wax poetic. Just buy that time. After that… Megatron could deal with the rest of it. And maybe, if he was lucky, Drift wouldn’t be dead on the other end of it.

Deadlock chuckled, the quietness doing nothing to lessen the cruel, bitter sound. He held his stance, guns raised and steady. 

“You’re losin’ your touch, Tarn,” Deadlock mocked lightly. He cocked his head towards where Overlord’s body lay, never taking his eyes off Tarn. “I thought by now I wouldn’t be having to clean up the big bad traitors for you.”

“ _You_ ,” Tarn sneered, “are the traitor to the Decepticon Cause.”

“And Overlord wasn’t? Or did you finally throw out your List?”

“Megatron _is_ the List now,” Tarn said. 

Deadlock snorted derisively. “Cute. As though you’re not still trying to impress him. As though you don’t still hope he’ll see your _worth_ and reward you for all your _hard work_. Because that’s what this is all about, isn’t it? This is you, throwing a temper tantrum, because your little crush wasn’t reciprocated.”

“Don’t talk as though you know anything about me. You know _nothing._ ”

“Oh, I don’t? Let’s break that down,” Deadlock said. Slowly, he began to circle Tarn, optics and guns held steady on him, choosing the direction that would prevent his back ever facing where Helex and Vos hovered nearby, agitated and uncertain. “You wanted to _replace me_ in Megatron’s esteem. You did everything you could to be better. You were _cultured._ You were a _good administrator._ You did _paperwork._ You were a _loyalist_. I said no, you said yes. Megatron said jump, and you asked how high. No order was too much or too far, because you were just _that desperate._ And that’s what’s so tragic about it — you were doomed to fail, the ‘click you decided to try _._ Because the reason Megatron _pursued_ me, at the start of it all? He asked me to jump and I told him to go fuck himself. It’s like Overlord said; he _used_ you, like the convenient tool you bent over backwards to make yourself into.”

Beneath the rage, Drift knew he would regret this later. Here were all the _ugliest_ parts of him on display for Rodimus to see, for _Ratchet_ to see; for even though Ratchet knew all too well the darker parts of Drift, as long as he’d known him, Drift had always treated the medic far more carefully than he treated anyone else. More carefully than mechs he _liked_ , let alone hated. 

It wasn't what the many would call gentle, he knew. But Drift didn't have their gentleness – all he could offer was the scared, vulnerable affection of a starved animal, that fragile trust that turned him desperate for more when it hadn't wrought pain.

“Megatron never liked you, and _certainly_ never loved you,” Deadlock continued — mocking, cruel words specifically chosen to find all the loose panels and pry them up to let the rust creep beneath. “You could never replace me. Overlord thought that Megatron hoped he’d come ‘crawling back’? I was the skiv who taught Megatron how to throw a punch.”

Drift didn’t enjoy violence; he didn’t enjoy pain. For all he was excellent at it, he loathed killing. But where other mechs got a rush from inflicting suffering, Drift got it from reminding others just exactly _who_ they were up against. The sickening-sweet rapture of the surety that he could protect himself and those he loved twisted into something seductively hideous; he wanted anyone who _tried_ taking advantage of him to feel horror and _shame_ for ever thinking that they could raise a hand against him in the first place. He wanted them to spend the last moments of their life berating themselves. He wanted them to _regret._

There was a relief, beneath his own self-disgust, nestled small and feeble; the notion that maybe now the effort he’d been making would be _appreciated_. Maybe in the face of how horrific he was at the root of it all, how hideous his hate was, they would appreciate how hard he had tried to be kind, even as that now lay dead and buried. 

“Overlord said… you heard—?” Then, Tarn’s field darkened _further_ , and Drift would admit, quietly, to himself, that as much as he’d stared down the barrel of the metaphorical – and literal – gun throughout his life, _that much_ murderous intent being hyper-focused directly on him was unnerving. “You _helped him escape._ You’re _protecting him._ ”

Deadlock shrugged. “You think you’re gonna do somethin’ about it? I was at this before you were _born._ You lead what was meant to be my command. This a fight you really wanna pick?”

“I _killed_ you,” Tarn said lowly. “You and the rest of your absurd crew.”

“You did,” Deadlock said, “You killed Drift. It’s not that hard — so did I. The question you should be askin’ yourself is can you kill _Deadlock?_ That’s not so easy. I’d know. I tried.”

“I don’t think you tried _hard enough._ ” Tarn raised his fusion canons, humming with a dangerous charge.

* * *

_“All of High Command knew.”_

_“Oh so that’s your excuse–”_

_“It wasn’t my place to share.”_

_“You didn’t think we had a right to know we had a member of the fragging Conclave on board our ship?!”_

_“We have_ ** _Megatron_** _as our_ ** _Captain._** _Drift was gone for_ ** _three years_** _because he took the fall for_ ** _someone else’s_** _stupidity._ _So_ ** _excuse me_** _if I didn’t want to take some… some_ ** _gross pleasure_** _in further tarnishing his memory!”_

_“Chromedome, Ratchet, please–”_

* * *

**_FWOOM!_ **

Drift lunged to the side, barely avoiding the shot that would have blown him clean in two, rolling and quickly bouncing back to his pedes a distance away. He returned fire, shots landing in Tarn’s shoulder and elbow joints, the struts exposed with his arm outstretched as it was, not severing but severely weakening. Tarn grunted as he was forced to drop his arm, the dual fusion cannons too heavy for his weakened joints to support. 

Drift was caught off guard as Tarn used his loose limbed arm as a blunt weapon, smacking Drift across the face with the side of the cannons. The force threw him off his pedes and sent him tumbling. Tarn ripped one of the fusion cannons off his arm and threw it aside, lightening the weight. 

Drift stumbled to his feet, looking around for where his guns landed. Not fast enough; Tarn’s hand closed around his throat and lifted him. Drift’s hands immediately flew to Tarn’s wirst, gripping it, claws out, digging into his wrist plating and trying to lessen the pressure on his neck cables. When that didn’t work, Drift slipped the shiv he kept hidden in his wrist and stabbed it into Tarn’s already weakened shoulder joint. Tarn grunted, but kept his grip, even as Deadlock planted a foot on the blunt end of the shiv and shoved it in deeper.

“You know what my favorite part of my work is, Deadlock?” Tarn asked. “It’s the _research._ For every target, I study. I study their history, their skills, their movements, so I know how to best subdue them and bring them to justice. So I can enact the most fitting _punishment._ You? Not only have I studied you the most, but I’ve had _practice._ I’ve killed you once, but apparently, that wasn’t enough. Believe me when I say doing so again will be my pleasure.”

“You ain’t the only one who’s done their fuckin’ research,” Deadlock sneered. He released Tarn’s wrist. Reaching out, he grabbed Tarn’s throat in return, the tips of his claws digging into the two large lines that ran alongside the spine. The reaction was _instantaneous_ — Tarn recoiled with a pitiful sound, throwing Deadlock away from him, the motion a violent flinch more than anything. 

* * *

_I_ _nside the citadel, Whirl interrupted the argument to loudly inform the surrounding audience that that was a low blow. He let someone explain that those lines Drift went for were the first Senate surgeons disconnected when performing empurata. It wasn’t his job._

* * *

Deadlock landed on his pedes. He felt his foot knock against something and glanced down to see one of his guns nestled in the grass. Snatching it up, he immediately aimed at Tarn, only to be grabbed from behind by the arms and lifted. Deadlock kicked up with both legs, using the momentum set by his unseen opponent against them to wrap a leg around their neck and throw them both to the ground. Deadlock’s knee crushed Helex’s nose bridge as they landed, his feet planted on the ‘cons chassis. Using his position to his advantage, he immediately shot out the joints of Helex’s smaller secondary arms, blowing them off completely. The con yelled, grabbing for him; Deadlock caught Helex’s flailing arm, and with a leveraged twist, broke the connection at the shoulder strut. The airflow shifted, a garble of numbers and percentages picked up by his finials telling him enough to know Vos was behind him. 

Grabbing onto Helex’s collar faring, he rolled onto his back, Helex’s body above him shielding him from the shots meant for Deadlock; though large, the empty space of Helex’s smelting chamber meant that most of the mechs weight was from his limbs and kibble, making him _just_ light enough for Deadlock to manipulate with the right leverage. Helex’s stunned expression at being lifted was replaced by pain as the blaster shots littered his back. He choked as Deadlock shot him through the chest, shattering the hood of his smelter and severing main lines. Vos stopped shooting and ran toward them. Feet planted on either side of Helex’s smelting chamber, Deadlock activated his back thrusters, using the burst propulsion to shove the hulking con away and throw him into Vos, who fell to the ground, pinned beneath his struggling comrade’s dead weight.

“Amateurs,” Deadlock huffed. He had no idea how he used to fight entire battles like this — he was too old for this shit. Deadlock reloaded.

“ _DEADLOCK!!!”_

He ducked as the first syllable left Tarns’ vocalizer, just barely avoiding the fusion blast. Deadlock transformed, speeding along the ground directly toward Tarn, who’d seemingly recovered from the panic Deadlock had inflicted. At the last moment Deadlock hit the brakes, locked his wheels, and used his momentum to drift out of Tarn’s line of fire. Switching back to root form, he leapt, aimed, and—

Tarn whirled around, grabbed him by the face, and threw him to the ground with the weight of his entire frame. 

The impact was jarring, forcing air from Drift’s system and shocking his system. Weakly, Drift lifted his gun; Tarn ripped the shiv out of his shoulder and stabbed it through Drift’s wrist, pinning it to the ground. Drift jolted, and suppressed the pained sound that rose to his throat, refusing to give Tarn the satisfaction. Dift’s free hand lifted to grab at the shiv, but it was quickly caught in Tarn’s grip, crushing his wrist plating with the force. He realized, now, that the tiredness that had been creeping up on him was in part Tarn’s outlier ability— _Glitch’s_ ability—sapping the vitality from his very spark exponentially, the parasite planted the first time Tarn had grabbed him by the throat and re-invigorated now that Tarn laid hands on him again.

Unless Drift somehow managed to get out of this in the next few clicks, he was as good as dead.

At least he could die knowing Tarn was suffering to do it — the mech was too riled up to talk Drift’s spark into extinguishing itself, which meant he was using _touch_ ; which meant he was in an excruciating amount of pain, if the file Drift reviewed at the proposed founding of the D.J.D. all those millennia ago was accurate.

_Take that, you fragger._

Tarn grabbed him by the jaw, tight enough to leave dents, and forced Drift’s head up to look him in the optic.

“ _Megatron_ is the _List._ You on the other hand, I’m going to kill because _I_ _hate you._ ” Tarn’s weight bore down on him. Drift’s plating creaked, the slimmed-down armor he adopted post-war threatening to buckle under the weight, already strained from him throwing around a mech three times his size. Tarn’s optics burned behind his mask, his face inches from Drift’s own. “I embody the Cause. I am the judge, jury, executioner. I am its most loyal servant. What were you to it? What were you _ever_ to it?! _Why were you ever important!? WHY DID HE END THE WAR OVER_ ** _YOU!?”_**

“I gave—” Drift gasped, “I gave him two cents.”

Tarn reared back, looking down at Drift in shock. 

“It… was written for _you_ ," Tarn uttered. 

Drift let out a strained, dry laugh.

With a primal sound of rage, Tarn raised a fist and slammed it down on Drift’s finial. 

Drift _screamed._ The world around him was drowned in white noise as pain exploded in Drift’s helm, agony blooming from thousands of destroyed sensors. One of his optics shorted out with the sharp smell of burnt wiring. The other flickered and dimmed as consciousness faded beneath the comforting monotony of static and stasis that embraced him in its gentle hold.

[ _I_ _n some quiet part of his broken processor, an old audio file was returned to the top of the queue; one of many in the parade of what few good memories he had that played, never-ending, in the back of his mind, precious and things he was too afraid to lose to the corrosion; the familiar voice reciting in a gravelly, soft tone, a bittersweet threnody to the horrors of his life:_ ]

_̵̨̘̠̤̳́̔̈̋͛_

_̷̲͇̼͊̀̈́̔͗_

_̷̨͖̞̺͑̋“̶̺̬͑͊̔̃͆͘͠Ț̶̨͓͔̐͗̑͊͆̑͊̓h̷̤̙̪̦̙̦̱̓̚e̷͎̥̙̦̩͚̻͑̀͛͆̄͊͋͝ ̴͉̮̜̅̐̀͌̕̕_

_̸̂̃̈́ ̵̨̘̠̤̳́̔̈̋͛v̷̘̜̰̮̳͓̳͝e̸̖̲͆͂͗̄̐͜͝͝ṛ̸͖̺̼̅̂̊͛͗̇̚m̶̰̹̦̐̍̂͝i̵̥͕̘̭̭͚̩̽͑̆͂̐͐̈͜͝n̴̼͓̖̗͓̜̍̈̔̽. ̸̂̃̈́ ̵̨̘̠̤̳́̔̈̋͛ ̸̂̃̈́ ̵́̔̈̋_

_̸̂̃̈́ ̵̨̘̠̤̳́̔̈̋͛_

_̷͉̊̓̌̊̆͆͘͝Ṱ̶̬̑h̶̳̙͛̇ẽ̸̗r̶̙͍͌e̷͇̔͝ ̸͍͒ĭ̷̹s̸͇͊_

_̴̭̰̕l̷̘͠ȇ̵͈f̸̰͌t̴͙͈̅̂ ̸͈̕i̸͙̚ņ̸̠̉ ̸͖̼͂̕s̴̻̤̿͒t̷̲̿͝r̷̠̒̆i̵͓̙̊p̷̲̌̿p̷̥͋̿e̵̩̘͊d̷͖͐̈ ̷̯̑̑-̶̛͍͑͘_

_̵̯̟̝̋ ̵́̎͆͋̈̏̄̚͠ ̵̨̘̠̤̳́̔̈̋͛ ̴̧̯͖͔͈̠̣̩͆̓̿ ̶̈ ̵̨̘̠̤̳́̔̈̋͛_

_̵̳̦̥̗̭̊ͅa̶̢̧̢̺̲͉̽͜ń̴̛̠̠͙̝̬̝̘̳̆̇ ̴̹̰́̐̍e̵͎̜̻̟̔x̷̢̮̖̺͕̥͉̚p̸̧̙̬͎͕̖͗̄͘i̸̧̮̺͇͍͓͕̊͆r̴̼̞̯̀̉͂͜͜ǎ̶̠̩̜̗̒̌͐ẗ̵̛́̈́̅̈́̄͜i̶̟̯͆̅̓̓̒̄̔o̶̗̗̥̝͚͓̺̒̒̋͝ņ̴̞̐ ̶̛̤̺͓̞͚̎̾̿d̵̳͚̞̲͉̺̈̍͛̐̄̃a̸͙̣̾͑̄̐̕t̵͈͐̍͠ě̴̢̢͓̻̥͍̮̔̃͗͐;̴͈͓̑͗ ̷̡̙̋_

_ē̵̖͇̕͝x̶̼͍̘̂̍o̶̡̥̿͋-̴̩̄̌͂s̶̻͇̟̃k̷̭͖͇̚e̶͉l̴̜͊ȩ̸̛̅t̶̝̂ą̵̰̃͆͜l̵͉̠̱̋͊ ̸̥̱̈ḭ̴̄n̵̢̟͂s̸̲͝i̶̺̪͎̰͒̓͘d̴̛̙̫͉̓ê̷͓̖̠ ̵̙̑t̵̩͓̊ḩ̸̓̍ḛ̷̻̫̂͑ ̸̘̲̕͠c̶̖͙̉͋̀ö̸̮̝́̎̀n̶̺͘̕c̵̗͐͂̉r̶̿̿ͅe̸̘̎̀ť̸̳ê̷̡̩̫̋͒_

_t̸̞͖̐̏̈́̓́̎̚ḩ̷̡̓́́̎̌̕͝à̵̡̺̫͖̤͓̗͚͕͆̇͠t̷͈͚̝̳̳̝̙̭̬͗̑̌̋͑ ̶̢̩̹̱͙͔͝ẁ̴̡̙͚̣̿͠e̵̠̘̣̫̠͙̮̬̋̈́̕ ̶̙͕̞̦̱̜͔̒́̈́͜r̵̮̳̻̗̰̥̭̠̖̈͊͝ȩ̷̦̤͒̽̍͝š̶̪̠͈̓̑ȋ̵̭̬̪̭̮̺̥̖̼̈́̽͐̿̈́̕̕g̶̰͙̲̖̱̀̉̐̊͐͜ͅṉ̷͔͓͎̚ ̴͚̦̲͕̳̬͌ͅṱ̶͚̻̗͎̾͋̎̿͑͝͝͝o̸̻̤̮̰̘̽͂ ̶̗͙͋̋͆͑̀̎c̴̯̓̌̀͛͝h̴̨̛̛̯̭̼͖͇̐͐͆̔͛̐͠o̶̲̠̻̻̱̹̩̐̉̒͑̌̓̉͝k̵̭͙̤̜̖̓͒e̶̢̪̗̜̤̭̮̰̩̿̉̾̃̓̍̌ ̸̖̩͉̦͕͇͈͑͆̿̓ơ̵̬̒́̔̊ͅņ̶̹͇̲̞̗͖̃̀̈̓́͜ ̷̱͙̹̭̖͔͉͐̔͋̇̊̓͛̎̚͜ͅt̷̢̤̖͚̬̝͎̫̺̐͂͑͐͝͝ḩ̴̨̤̮͂͆͋̀̀͝e̶̯͍̹̗̹̟̐̏ ̷̫̬̺̪̪̟̻̐͛̈f̸͙̲͉̟̱͈͖̥͋u̶͖̫͙̓̎̿͑̓̾̐m̷̧̜̱̉̈́̈͘ē̶͎̟̝͙̭̖͑̑̊̃͒͒s̵̡͕̲̠͛͝-̶̛͍͑͘_

_̸̐̍̂̀̽̔O̸͈̼̤͌̉̀̑̈́̓̃͝͝n̴͍̫̦͎͈̥̉̊́̍̈́͗ę̵̨̧͖͎̺͑ ̵̡͕̺̞̻̞͎͎̪̀͋̈́̎͌̓͗̕ḋ̶̡̤̫͙̺͈̇͋͂͊̎̈́̀a̸͓͓͗̊͐̇̉̌̃͝ͅÿ̶̮͖̜̲̝̰̹́͋̾̃̄͛͘͝ ̸͚̥̘̓͝t̵̡̝̮͙͓͐̌͆͠͠h̴̛̲̪̭̆̏̔͌ȋ̶͔̥̟͓̜̪͈̗͉̋̊s̵̱̥̎͗͆̈̌͌̚͠ ̷̡̢͍͇͕̠̭͌̒̓̀̈́̚͘c̸̝̫͔̎̿͆̈̌̒̚h̶̩̔̉̉̿͑̒a̵̢͙͈̒͒́l̷͈̲̹͒̇̿̽k̵̡̛̗͇̤̦̙͓̔͂͋̉̉̈́̚ ̶̨̝̲̻͕̬̤̲̲̚o̸̟͖͈̬̤͛͂̓͋̊͆͝͝ṳ̷̧͚͍̎͒͑̂́̍͘̚t̸̨̢̳͈̻͚̲͖̜̎̅̐̑̈́̇̈l̵̜̳̻̍͗̃̌͘ǐ̶̝̗̙̬̲̅̒͛̓̕n̵̢̯͎̻͑̑̒͂̅͘e̵̤͕͠_

_̵̯̟̝̋ ̵̨͙̰̺̼̬̩́̎͆͋̈̏̄̚͠ ̸̯͔̥͊̽͛͑̃̒͌̓͘ ̷̨̥͍͍͙͇̗̼͌̅̌͂̾͛̓̕ ̴̧̯͖͔͈̠̣̩͆̓̿ ̶̈_

_w̴̬̮̯̭̲̿ḭ̴̓̓̈́͒̀̍͗͠l̴̗̻͙̈́̽̃̒̋̌͝l̴̖̦̝̟͛̓ͅ ̸͓͓͇͖̪̓̾̉̅̈́̃̊͆͜c̴̙̭̒͗̋̈́̏̃͋͜ì̶͈͍̦͚̜͚̹̫̤̈́̄͑͗r̷̻̥̬̳̦̈́̈́̆̊̃̈́̔̔ć̴̢̧̙̤̭̪̠̽̀̓̑͠l̸̬͇̃͛̎̀̎͘͘͝ͅę̶͎͔̖͍̓̂͊̚͝ ̶̨͚͔̭̺̪̲̳̆̅͆͝t̵͙͖̂̈́͊̿͊́̕ͅh̶̲̬̥̼͚̬̗͒̍́̚͠i̵͖̤̫̪͈̒s̸̛̛̛͉͙͗̓̌̒͆͊ ̶̙̞̳̫̋̎͑̊̇̏ç̵̬͍͈̘̼̪̰̫̌̐̽̚i̴̬̯̥͕̦̠͙͙͍̒t̵̻͖͋̌͋͋̍̃͘y̸̗͈̋̉̇,̸̢̦̹͇͂_

̸̤̒

_̵̥̠̥̌̄̔̅͊̾͘͠D̶̞͇̻͍̍͗́̓r̴͇̞̻̱̔̎̔i̸̡͖̐̈́f̶̨̎t̴̡̯̮͚̯̣̅̋.̴̷̮̩̟̞̭̻̠̘̖̊̊̀̑̚_

_̶̶̧͎̫͈̝̠̖̲̱̅͂̽́̂͊̇̐̂ͅ_

_̵̊̾̓͂͊͛̿_ ̵͉̉ _a̸̡̺̔̈͒̽l̸̛̼̣̭̥̒̑͛͠l̷̖̩̈͘e̴͓̻̣͚̮̓̾g̸̨̣̦̦͉͓̝̕o̵̧̲̜̣͆̈́͜ͅr̵̛͕͇͖͚̥̮̪̫̲͋̓̓͑́ḯ̴̢͙̤̐̌e̴͚̓́̓̓̌s̷̞̖̩̀̽̇̒̑͛ ̴͙̱̩͕̺͆̈́͐̇ͅͅo̶̰͆͛́̏͂͂͠f̸̘̟̗͕̪͊ ̶͔̏̉͠ǐ̵̪̤̦̼̀̒͒̂n̷̡̛̪̊̐͊͒́̃̐̏t̵̖̝͕̱͈͋̊̏̅̈ĭ̷̤͕̥̣̒́́̽̿m̶̧͈̆͆̓̃̍̈̀͘i̷̹̽̒d̵̞́̔̆͊̊͗̾̕ă̶̡̡̖̖̖̯̠͍̹̓͘t̷̞͕͒͛̍̉̐͗̚͜͝͠ͅi̴͎̾͋͆̂̽͐̀͌̑ọ̴̢̱̲͍͚̜̇n̸̯̜̩̣̖̖̜̖̲͋͆̀͘_

_̸̧̤͓̱̱̪̜̫̓̍͘͜ ̸̗̫͓̪̬̖̿̿̇̕ ̵̨̪͍͉͍̦̫͇̪̐̅ ̷̤͇̭̿͐̈͊̉͗ ̴̢̡̬͈̏ ̴̭͓̩̹͙̻̰̾̌̈́̎̎̓̋̄͘[̷̖͇̣̟̺̈́͌́̋́ͅļ̷͓̜̇͂̀̇͘o̸̹͈̟̊̋̾̆͜͠ͅǎ̷̡̹̥͕̲̠̺̜̫̈́̒͐͘͝n̸̖̭̍̑̇̑͋̚ě̷̡̡̡̟̣͈̗̳̯̽͘d̸̲̩͓̬̠͋̿̄̈́͠ ̶̥̘̣̻̝͍̣͒͑̂̈́̊͘_

_ŵ̴̫̊̽̇̅͒̂i̸̤̖̍͒̆͊̔̃̚̕th̸̛̒͌ i̷̙͇̘͋̾ǹ̷͙͉̮͊̌͠t̴͕̪̹̥̱͒̒͆͗̽̚e̵͙̗̝̰͒̃̉͆ŕ̷̙͑ë̴̠͈͈́̃̆̾͛͘͝͝ͅṣ̴̲͒̈́͊̇̎̕͝ͅţ̶̈́ͅ]̷̨̬̲̩̞͚̈́̏̓͜͝_

_̸̞̈̾͂̋̑̓̅̕͝ ̵̡̨̨̺̣͊̐̔͌͠͝ ̵̠͉̟̎͆̐̈́̒͒͠f̸̞͆͆͐̾͌͊͆̉̓r̵̺͍̠̔̊́̐͘ỏ̷̙̗ṁ̵̰̮͙̰͙̇̓̏̚͠ ̶̯̞͎̙̮̦̣͕̃t̷̡̲̬̣̑͆́̔̃h̶̨͓͎̃͋̄̒̄̕ͅe̸̡̗̮͉̯̱̿͜ͅ ̷͔̳̯͑͐̒̂̐͛͘̕f̴͉̠̫̿̃͑̈̅̓ļ̷̌̈́̓̄̽̓͝ȍ̸̢̲̱̠̝͍̰̣̇͐͝ẃ̵̻͙̠̅̅̄͊͌̋̏e̵̞̗̟͆͌́͋̅̏͘͘͝r̴̽̇̈̓̿͝ͅs̵̯̥̻̭̲̙͉̟̣͗̐̌̅_

_ǫ̶̨͔̭̫̦͇̙̹͛̾̕̕f̴̡̢͕̩̻̑ ̷̳̳̼̽͘a̸̝͛̏_

_m̴̼̬͎̑̕a̸̝͛̏r̸͉͇̃͗ķ̶̹͎̂̍ ̸̤͕̠́̓͊ť̶̟̼̼͐ĥ̷̛̳̻͘e̴̼̻̥̅͝ d̵̤̠͆at̴̜̓e̵͍͖̎̌͗ ̷̢̲̯̑̓̄ iṋ̵̺͙̍ ̷̨̜̺̅͒͝y̵̳̽o̸͚͒ǘ̸̩͚̀̈ŗ̶͙̀͂ ̴̨̠̕m̷̫̌i̴̥͕n̷̞̲̜̎̌̽ḑ̵̸̘̘̤͆̓̽̒_

_-̶̛͍͑͘ǫ̶̨͔̭̫̦͇̙̹͛̾̕̕f̴̡̢͕̩̻̑ ̷̳̳̼̽͘a̸̝͛̏-̶̛͍͑͘_

_̵̡̪̊̾̓͂͊͛̿/_

̸̈́ _Ḋ̵̮̤͇̿̓̓̔͆̈́͜ͅr̶̮̃̀͋̄̚i̶͇͔͙͂̂͑̂̿͐͋̑f̶̫̯͖̖̲͖̱̓͐̊̍͠t̴͖͌͐̂̈͘͝!̶̨̖̮͓̦͖̳̠͐̅̌̓̈͂_

_̶̶̧͎̫͈̝̠̖̲̱̅͂̽́̂͊̇̐̂ͅ_

_̵̡̪̊̾̓͂͊͛̿/_

_̵̡̪̊̾̓͂͊͛̿_

_D̶͙̯̭͉̻́̈̇̾̎̈́̕͜Ŗ̵̢͍͚̮̥͕̠̌̍̒I̵͚͒͛F̴͔̬̒͐Ṭ̷̜!̶̲̔̏_

_`_ ° .

**_DRIFT!!_ **

He jolted, his working optic onlining abruptly at the sound of his name, and immediately became aware of a familiar weight resting in his palm, nearly-vibrating. He curled his fingers around it. On blind instinct, he swung with all the strength he had left to muster. The gem in the hilt of Reach Penance Through Violence flared with light, the blade cutting straight through Tarn’s arm and severing the limb completely. Tarn let him go and stumbled back, his weight lifting off of Drift as he grasped at the bleeding stump of his shoulder strut. 

Still lying flat on his back, Drift stared at the Great Sword in his hand in bewilderment. 

_Wing?_

Tarn shouted something; he couldn't understand the words beneath the static, but Drift could guess well enough what was being said.

The world spun as he turned his head. Through the static clouding his vision he could vaguely pick out the shape of pedes running toward him. A shot planted itself in the ground just beside his head, grazing close enough to leave a scorch mark on his plating. He grunted, trying to get himself to stand, or at least roll over, unable to get his bearings beneath the flashing errors that clogged his HUD. Suddenly, he was lifted, weightless. He wondered if he’d managed to stand until he realized he’d been picked up and—Drift hit the ground and rolled. He settled on his front, forehelm pressed to the ground as he waited for the next blow to come while trying not to purge his tanks. The pain in his helm made it hard to think; it took a moment for him to realize that he’d neither been shot nor beaten into shrapnel. Vaguely he could hear a familiar voice speaking. With a groan, he onlined his optic.

Reach Penance Through Violence lay on the grass a short distance from him. He reset his optic, and he drew the conclusion that no, it wasn’t Wing’s voice he heard now. As he continued to stare at the Great Sword, Drift turned his attention inwards, instinctively fumbling for an ancient bootleg pain-suppressant code he’d installed when he was still in the Dead End; it was the only one he could remember how to locate. The program crashed twice before successfully booting up. The errors in Drift’s HUD cleared abruptly as the agonizing pain was reduced to something he could push through. 

Looking up, Drift was met with the bright orange glow of Trailcutter’s panic bubble.

“What…” he whispered. 

Megatron. Megatron was the one who was speaking, from the center of the panic bubble. The bubble he’d trapped the DJD in alongside him. Drift realized Megatron must have been the one to throw him aside when they’d come for him. Megatron was… what was he saying?

“I̴̪̭͑̔ ̵̝̽̐w̴̭̠̱͚̠̳̩̌̐͆̽ả̴̢͎̻͍̜s̶̢͍͓͖̼̈́̒̈́͋͠ ̷̥̫̠̤͆̏͠p̶̨̫̀͝r̶̝̖̽̑̈́͠e̸̛̺̓͊p̷̩͖͎̯̩̐́͜á̷͙̘̃ṛ̵̝̐͘e̵̮̲̒d̷̪͗̅ ̵̭͛t̸̼͍͗̽̾̊o̴̳̩̫̍̈̎ ̶̤͚͇̌͘͝a̸̰͇̠̺̦̹̼̎͠c̷̰̠͆̍͒ͅc̴̡̡͉̪̘̮͓̏e̴̥̓̑p̸̹̰̟͒t̴̥͍̮͕͑ ̶͙͔̖̩̼̑̄m̷̯͇͍̤͕̟͎̀ỵ̴͖̻͙̤̜̓̓ ̶̩̣̀f̴̨̢͚͔̗͖̣̈̅a̷͖͔̹̫̯̿͑t̸̪̦̙͗́e̷̳̞͍̫̊.̵̆̅̿̃͐̕ͅ ̸̢̧̪̥̩̓̔̔̑̏͂I̷͎̭͈̦͉̝͌̍͒̓̀ ̷̨̨͈̩ẉ̴̦̺̉a̶͓̾͘ş̷̬͚̪͕̰̓̇̀́̕̕ ̷̙̉́̓͂̈́ă̶̺͍̲̬͚̻̎̈́͘ẗ̷̺́͗̊̌͘ ̷̟̥̩͙̦̥͎̃ṕ̴̯̃̅͂̄ͅe̷̛͚a̷̦̩̮̙̘͑͌̌̓̂͜͝ͅc̶̛̰͇̫͕̍̆ẹ̷͖͚̳̾̎̚.̵̭̆͊̒̃͝ ̷̼͉͍͖̙̞̊̾̏ͅ ̸̢̧̪̥̩̓̔̔̑̏͂ ̵͈̞̥̗͖̈́̿̓͆̃̚w̵̛͈̯̥̩̼͎̆͐̆̿a̸̛̞̼̖͆̇͗͆͝s̴̮̣̖̲̄ ̴̨̖͗̓̈͛͝h̷̙̭̩̹̣̱̉̈́a̸͚̬͖̱̽̇͑p̵̢̺̤͍͇̱̈́̆̽̆͘͘p̴̛̦̝̯̣̘͌̄ͅy̸̬̑͗͝͠.”

Drift gritted his dentae, trying to manually tune his hearing to filter out the white noise.

"A̸͚͈͒n̶̘̽d̶͚͆͌̕ͅ ̸̹͛́̽t̸͎̑͐h̷̳̰̼̓e̷͕̳͘ͅn̴̛͔̻͊ ̸͖̅͝y̶̟̩̪͌ó̷͕ú̵̘̞̜ ̵͈͚̭͗̐̿ç̶̟̰̃̔a̵͉͊m̵̦̳̰̓̒ẻ̷̹̐̎ ̵̻̏̒ả̷̯͕͖l̵̙̭̈́͊ò̶̠̲̍ń̸̪ḡ̵̙ ̷͓͍̊ạ̸̧͊n̴̳̈́̇̿d̷̪͗̅ ̶̪̺̂r̸̲͚̽̓͘ͅu̷̖͉͑ï̴̮̈͑n̷̪̬̅e̴̩̖̊͐d̸̞͕̥̈́̈́͐ ̴̼̲͌̈E̶̪V̶̝̍E̷̛̤͎̔R̵̢̤͔Y̸̥̕͠T̷͚̟͈̿H̷̩̤̎͌I̷̲̞̿̉N̴̢̦̔͜͝G̵̹̖͈̽̃!̴͓̬̌̃!”

Megatron was angry. He could tell that much.

"M̷̳͉̃ȁ̸̺͖̍̕r̷̼̉k̴͚̬̇͒͜ ̶͉̏ţ̴̤̞̊̈h̷i̴s d ̶͉̏ay in your mind Tarn—“ Drift’s hearing cleared as he got the right frequency, “—it’s the day the dream _dies_. I’m _shutting you down._ ” 

Vos screamed as his body was lifted, impaled by… was that anti-matter? 

“Vos!” Tarn cried out, reaching for the sniper. 

“No. Not ‘Vos.’ Not anymore,” Megatron said. “Today you die by your birth names. Starting with you… _Forestock_.”

Drift watched as Forestock’s frame was torn to pieces by the antimatter that Drift could now see was leaking from Megatron’s eyes. He died with a quiet sound. 

“ _Scizzorsaw._ ”

Helex, on the other hand, died with a terrified scream. 

Tarn backed away, a hand extended before him, trying to pacify. “Please, be reasonable—“

“You’d have thought — given the _compassion_ shown to me since boarding the Lost Light — that I’d have learnt to be a little more _forgiving,”_ Megatron said, walking slowly toward the cowering Tarn. “But I’m afraid Getaway had the right idea.” 

Tarn seemed to rally his courage for a moment, his extended hand clenching into a fist.

“Do it then,” Tarn shouted. “ _DO IT!_ At least I’ll die a Decepticon!”

Megatron snatched the mask off Tarn’s face, his head snapping to the side with the force of the gesture. 

“You and I both,” he said, affixing the Decepticon insignia to his chest once more.

It was those words that shook the numbness from Drift’s mind, the reality of what was about to happen hitting him like a hurricane. Immediately he pushed himself to stand, but his legs buckled beneath him with a single step, his equilibrium completely shot by his frayed sensors that flared with static. He pushed himself up to his forearms with a grunt and looked up. Megatron was speaking again, his words lost once more beneath the white noise. Drift reset his audial receptors repeatedly, snarling in frustration. Megatron had lifted Glitch by the throat, but Drift’s optics weren’t on the DJD’s unmasked leader.

“Megatron!” Drift shouted, his voice hoarse, praying that his voice would carry, that he could hear him. “What are you doing? _You’ll_ _die!”_

Megatron looked at Drift, at where he’d collapsed mere paces from the forcefield, sorrow and resignation heavy in the poet’s optics. For perhaps the first time since Drift met him, all those years ago, a young miner with a head full of dreams for a better life, Megatron visibly wore the age of his long years, stripped of the longevity his rage and rebuilds had given him. He looked so, so tired. 

“Stop it!” Drift tried to get his feet under him once more, making it no further than another step before he fell to a knee, one hand braced on the wall of the forcefield and the other on the ground to hold himself up. Distantly, he knew he was crying. “Stop it! You— you _bastard_ , it _wasn’t supposed to end like this!_ ”

Megatron parted his lips to speak, but whatever he was about to say was cut off with a cry of his name, from—

 _Rodimus._ Rodimus, who was there, somehow, inside the forcefield, clutching Brainstorm’s briefcase in one hand.

“Leave Tarn!” Rodimus shouted, his free hand extended toward Megatron. “Take my hand!”

Glitch’s head exploded as he was torn asunder by the antimatter that continued to spread, growing more unstable with all it consumed.

“Brainstorm’s pulling me back in five! Come on!” Rodimus urged. 

Megatron looked at Rodimus quietly. Drift could see Rodimus’ expression fall as he seemed to draw the same conclusion Drift had a moment before. 

“Megatron,” Drift called out, his voice choked. The miner met his gaze, and the heavy resignation in his optics were now replaced with something else; a seed, that if nurtured, could bloom into something like hope.

“Please,” Drift said.

Megatron took Rodimus’ hand. They vanished, and with a sound too loud to hear, Drift was enveloped in blinding light. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some explanation: Sun's Up, Gunner is one of a few works that make up a series where I've basically set out to rewrite Drift's character once I realize how underutilized he actually was throughout all of MTMTE/LL. Another work in this series is _Flowers from a Sidewalk Crack & Two Cents from a Dead End Skiv_, which explores how Drift and Megatron met in the first place, and how Drift may have been Megatron's muse and in part served as the inspiration for what would become the original Decepticon cause. 
> 
> The glitched-out memory Drift recalls in this chapter is an audio file of Megatron reading ["Obituary for the [Poet] Miner"](https://lesbiandeadlock.tumblr.com/post/619246736599400448/i-absolutely-adore-your-writing-and-the-way-you), which was a poem written in response to his meeting Drift, when Drift was still a bounty hunter, years before he would join the Decepticons as Deadlock. This poem was later included in _Towards Peace_ , and though the poem clearly speaks of someone who was influential in Megatron's decision to lead an active uprising instead of simply writing, no one knew who the poem was about, and its been hotly debated by historians and collectors of Megatron's work. Many people believe the subject of the poem is a metaphor, and isn't an actual person. 
> 
> When Tarn asks why Megatron ended the war "over him" (because canonically Megatron had a call to conscience and surrendered a mere two years after Drift changed sides), by Drift telling Tarn that he gave Megatron two cents, Drift is quoting this poem and is identifying himself as the person in it - and, on a larger scale, as the source of Megatron's inspiration, placing him on a level Tarn never had a hope to usurp.


End file.
